


Sway like the ocean

by Neurocrat



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, College, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9897293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurocrat/pseuds/Neurocrat
Summary: Matt thinks his new roommate, Foggy, is awesome, but Matt has trouble getting used to Foggy’s copious weed smoking. Finally Matt decides if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em (or at least try it once). Matt gets the pot paranoia and freaks out a little; comes to terms with embarrassing feelings; has some angst; gets the giggles. One thing leads to another.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Foggy, in the show: “I smoked a doobie once. It made me drool.” _Once,_ Foggy?
> 
> I just wanted to write a quick short thing about Foggy clearly having been a stoner in college, Matt getting high with Foggy just to try it, and getting real cuddly and goofy. It got out of control, and I wrote a novella. Oops.
> 
> Sex part is chapter 6. Lots of build-up until then.

When Matt walks into his dorm room for the first time and meets his new roommate, he is hit in the face with a confusing array of smells. There’s coffee and sugar and milk that Foggy consumed recently. There’s the oil and salt from the empty potato chip bag in the trash. There’s a pleasant undercurrent of slightly sweaty boy, an intriguing musk that wakes up some part of his brain he can’t identify. But it’s all overpowered by a strong, funky odor that reminds Matt of garlic, of skunks, things he tries not to get too near to. He can’t place it, but he’s drowning in it.

Matt makes friendly small-talk with the man he’s going to be living with for at least a year, controlling himself so he doesn’t react to the smell as he tries to figure out what it is. He finally realizes it’s marijuana. Foggy must be a pretty habitual smoker: his hair, his clothes, his skin all ooze the scent. As they joke around, Matt traces ground-zero of the smell to Foggy’s desk drawer; that must be where he keeps his stash.

He gladly agrees to go out to Foggy’s favorite coffee place, less interested in the hot chicks Foggy promises so much as the prospect of fresh air.

Later that night in their room, Foggy takes his stash out of the drawer, making the scent stronger. He hears the dried chunks of plant material rub against each other in the ziplock bag and can sense the sticky texture of them by the sound and the released stench.

“You smoke?” Foggy asks, with a grin. “I’ll share.” _God, he already trusts me not to narc on him?_ Matt thinks. He hears Foggy’s heart speed up a little, but more in line with looking forward to something nice than any kind of wariness or trepidation.

Matt shakes his head, trying to smile. “No, but thanks for offering,” he says.

“You don’t mind if I do, though, do you?” Matt can smell and hear that Foggy has taken a lump of the stuff out of the bag. He starts breaking it up on the surface of his desk, and the smell is overpowering to Matt. He tries not to choke.

“Um, I don’t mind, really, but – I think I’ll go for a little walk,” Matt says, shrugging his hoodie back on and picking up his stick. “I just don’t want to get the smell on my clothes.”

“Oh, don’t worry, dude, I blow the smoke out the window, it doesn’t stink up anything too bad,” says Foggy, while his heart slows and then speeds up again. Matt hears the disappointment in his voice, and it makes Matt a little sad. He really wants to make friends with Foggy; he’s enjoyed their time together so far – strangely, quite a lot. But Matt thinks he might retch if Foggy lights that stuff up.

“I’m just going to get some fresh air – I’ll be back later,” Matt says, smiling reassuringly. 

“Well, okay, suit yourself – enjoy your walk!” Foggy calls after him. “Bring back some fresh air for me, too, okay?”

Matt chuckles and waves, and gets the hell out of their dorm room. He stays away for an hour, and the smell is still almost unbearable when he gets back.

He’s going to have to do something about this.


	2. Chapter 2

Foggy smokes about every other night. Even while studying, even if there’s a test the next day. He talks on the phone to his parents stoned. It’s just a normal state for him. Matt suspects he’s a bit of an addict, although as far as Matt’s aware the stuff is pretty much harmless, and he’s not going to judge. After all, it’s not wrecking Foggy’s liver, like Matt’s father’s drinking would have, had his father lived long enough.

Over the next two weeks, Matt slowly gets used to the smell clinging to everything in their room. He walks around with it on his own clothes, so it’s a constant that he habituates to. Plus, he spends lots of time with Foggy, which is wonderful – the guy’s great, friendly and upbeat, smart, always cracking jokes and keeping Matt’s spirits up. They are both pre-law, and they share do-gooder aspirations for their law careers. Matt is excited to finally have a best friend. At least, he hopes that’s what Foggy is.

And of course Foggy reeks like pot all the time. So the smell gets less and less offensive to Matt, and he starts to be able to pick up the true smell of Foggy underneath it, a smell Matt inexplicably likes a lot. He guesses because Foggy is such a good friend. Probably if everyone could smell as acutely as Matt could, they would all love the smells of their close friends. Right?

Still, Matt has not gotten used to how overpowering the smell is when Foggy actually lights up. The smoke is so potent to Matt that he can spatially trace the 3D patterns of it in the air by smell alone. It’s overwhelming to him. He gets in the habit of taking a lot of walks outside by himself.

“I feel bad, buddy,” Foggy says one day. “I don’t want to kick you out of your own room all the time.”

“It’s really no big deal,” Matt says, smiling in a way he hopes is reassuring.

“How about I go buy us some air fresheners, or sprays, that—“

“No,” Matt cuts him off, in a firm voice that he can tell surprises Foggy, his muscles tensing up. Matt sighs. “Sorry. It’s just – I have a really sensitive sense of smell.” He can tell his friend that much, can’t he? Don’t some people just have that? “Sprays and scented things are kind of too much for me, they actually make me sick sometimes.” Plus they would cover up the excellent smell of Foggy even more than the marijuana, but Matt leaves that part out.

“Oh, like that chemical sensitivity thing?” Foggy asks.

Matt nods. “Yeah, something like that.”

Foggy thinks for a moment. “I’ll just try to smoke less often,” he says finally, making himself sound cheerful (Matt hears him shrug), but Matt senses the heartbeat slowdown. Poor Foggy: he’s actually noticeably sad at the prospect of having to cut down his drug use.

“No, Fog, you really don’t have to do that,” Matt says.

“Dude. No, I will. For you, man. C’mere.”

Matt comes toward him, doing his thing where he pretends to be cautious, acts like he doesn’t know exactly where everything is, as if he doesn’t see the warm outline of Foggy’s body, sense his affectionate smile and open arms.

Foggy hugs him tight, and Matt feels his own heartbeat respond to Foggy’s speeding up. Foggy’s hug is strong but his body also feels soft, pleasantly padded and warm. Matt wraps his arms around him in return, aware of the exact part of Foggy’s arms touching him, the sweat on his palms, the placement of each fingertip on the skin of his back through his shirt. Every place Foggy touches him tingles. 

That’s how hugging friends feels, thinks Matt. It feels great. How cool it is to have friends. Hugs are great things. He hopes Foggy will want to hug him again sometime. He forgets what they were talking about completely.

Foggy lets him go, and Matt steps back reluctantly. Foggy sits down on his bed, shifting around and running his fingers through his hair. “Okay, I’m going to say… Fridays only. No wait. Saturdays. No – I really need a break right at the end of the week, you know, so I can power through weekend studying, so Fridays, I think. …Or…”

“How about both Fridays and Saturdays,” Matt says, laughing. “I could stand to take two walks per week.”

“Aw, c’mon, to have to leave the room all weekend, that’s not fair to you,” Foggy says. “I’ll do Fridays. It’s cool!” He cuts off Matt’s protest. “I swear. Okay?”

“Okay,” Matt agrees. He’s a little skeptical, but so touched that Foggy is trying to be a good roommate and friend to him. He returns his fingertips to the place he’d left off in the textbook he was reading, noticing that he is still smiling, and exerting effort to wipe it off his face, feeling better than he has a right to feel.


	3. Chapter 3

Foggy is unable to stick to once a week. 

Matt suspected as much; Foggy is a true and real pothead. Matt doesn’t mind. The walks are good for him. But Foggy beats himself up about it.

“God, Matty, I’m sorry, I really tried,” he says, from where he’s sitting on his bed with his laptop and open notebooks in front of him. 

“I know – really, please don’t worry about it,” Matt says, feeling himself smile kind of stupidly, leaning back in his desk chair next to Foggy’s bed. 

“I’m a shit friend.”

“Foggy, no! You’re a fantastic friend. You’re my best friend in the world,” Matt blurts, turning in his desk chair to face him - and then holds his breath, mortified, hoping that was an okay thing to say, worried that it wasn’t.

“Aww, thanks buddy,” Foggy says with a chuckle, and Matt relaxes. “That’s really sweet. You’re my best friend, too.” That leaves Matt grinning helplessly, feeling happier than he expected or understands. Foggy reaches over to rub Matt’s shoulder, and the warmth and tingling stays after Foggy’s hand is gone.

“But I’m really not so fantastic,” Foggy continues, then takes on a jokingly over-dramatic tone and sighs, “I’m just a hopeless stoner.” 

“Come _on,_ ” Matt says.

“I mean. It’s not why they _first_ started calling me 'Foggy'. But it’s why they call me it _now._ ”

Matt laughs. “I never made that connection before,” he says, truthfully. “But you’re right. It’s in your _name,_ Foggy. It’s part of your very _identity._ How could I ever have expected you to cut down?”

“Hey!” Foggy protests in mock offense, punching Matt lightly on the arm. 

“Foggy Nelson, Stoner at Law,” Matt goes on, enjoying teasing him. “Will you have that on your business cards?”

“Oh my god, no,” cries an outraged Foggy. “That’s so… uncouth! It will be: ‘Foggy Nelson: Even Smarter When He’s High’. ‘Cause I am.” He grabs Matt and pulls him down onto his bed among his notebooks, head-locking him loosely with one arm while rubbing his knuckles into Matt’s scalp.

“Yeah, right,” Matt says, still laughing, inhibiting his martial arts instincts and just wiggling out of Foggy’s hold like a normal person.

“I am! I’ll prove it to you, Murdock,” Foggy says, trying to grapple Matt again. “I’ll – I’ll keep track of the grades I get on tests I take whilst high, and—“

“’Whilst?’ Are you high right now? Does pot make you Shakespearean or something?” Matt laughs, as Foggy lets him go and sits up, so Matt does the same.

“But soft, what stink from yonder window breaks,” Foggy intones, one hand raised in the air, and Matt bends over with laughter. “It is the weed, and Mary Jane is the sun!” 

“You are the biggest fucking dork,” Matt tells him, wiping tears from his eyes. 

Foggy snorts. “You’re the one who thinks the biggest fucking dork is funny, hence, making you a bigger fucking dork, Q.E.D.”

“Fair point,” Matt concedes, returning to his desk. “Okay, okay – we really should study.”

“Right, studying,” Foggy agrees, and Matt puts his headphones back on, tries to concentrate on the Macintosh voice reading his notes aloud to him. Sense memories of that brief wrestling session throb on his skin. He is aware that he’s partially hard, and he swallows, assimilating this fact. He’s a little confused, he concludes. Touch is so intense for him, it feels so good to have anyone touching him in a warm and friendly way. His body is just responding to that.

He takes his headphones off again. “Hey Foggy?” he asks, to get his mind onto something else. “What do you like so much about pot, anyway? I mean, other than you’d probably get the shakes if you couldn’t get it,” he teases.

“Weed isn’t like that and you know it,” Foggy says. “I don’t know, it just feels really good, man,” he answers hesitantly. “It relaxes me, and gets me out of my head, and changes my perspective on everything… And it makes all your senses, like, heightened and intensified. You really focus in on things. Food tastes really good, and things feel really good…” 

Even _more_ heightened senses. And while intoxicated, less able to exert control, to shut it out. “Hmm. I see why some people might like that,” Matt says carefully, “but sounds like something that’s just not for me.”

He hears Foggy’s shirt move as he shrugs. “Right on, dude, to each his own. You clearly detest the smell of it so much, anyway, I don’t see how you could smoke it even if you wanted to.”


	4. Chapter 4

Matt isn’t so keen on the idea of intoxication in general. But they are in college, and they are pre-law. Foggy likes parties and being social, and Matt hangs out with Foggy more or less constantly. Drinking is inevitable. 

Matt’s very good at not overdoing it. He drinks until it feels good, and stops when it starts feeling less good. He’s amazed at how many other students puke, or black out, or wreck themselves with hangovers. He always has to remind himself that most other people can’t feel the toxic assault on their bodies as keenly as him. 

But there is another problem with alcohol for Matt, which he has as much trouble predicting as someone without heightened senses: What it does to his emotions. Matt finds that alcohol often loosens up the tight clamp-down he normally keeps on a mass of dark stuff in his head, a clamp-down he wasn’t previously aware he was doing every day, every waking moment. When drunk, memories bubble up that he does not want to think about at all, much less re-experience. More than once, he works himself up into an intoxicated rage at the criminals who killed his dad; the organized crime syndicates who kill people all the time with impunity; the way that the law and the courts seem helpless to stop it. 

Only Foggy can soothe him in those times. “Hey, Matt, you’re getting that broody look again,” he’ll say, patting him on the back at a bar. “You want to go back home and put on a movie or something?”

“Yeah,” Matt answers, each time. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

It’s not long before there is a girl, especially with Foggy to play the extrovert and help Matt get in situations where he will meet girls. It’s been quite a while since the last time, and Matt remembers how raw and intense sex is, each touch and sensation striking the core of his brain and ripping open his intricate defenses. He remembers why he shies away from relationships as a rule when he finds out, after a few weeks of sex and touching wear his emotional shielding down to nothing, that the girl wasn’t as serious about him as he’d thought, and asks to “just be friends”. What the issue was, he doesn’t know; maybe broody is only a sexy look on the outside but not much fun to actually be around.

Matt doesn’t want to talk about it, but Foggy insists on being supportive, makes a huge show of taking Matt’s side. “Women these days. They’ve got no taste, no appreciation,” he rants, and Matt makes a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Right.” 

“Shut up, Matty. Anyone who doesn’t want to be with you is a – a shitty person, a – a – an all-out _nincompoop,_ frankly.”

Matt can’t help but smile.

They go out and get smashed, but it’s not a fun, giggly smashed like they sometimes have when it’s just the two of them drunk together. Matt was in too much of a mood to begin with, and the alcohol only intensifies it. He defies his usual caution and drinks more than he wants, almost to punish himself. The rest of the night is only available to him in disjointed chunks the next day. He remembers sitting on the floor of their dorm room in front of Foggy, whose arms were around him, as he talked to Foggy about his father, and how his father died. He thinks he remembers Foggy petting his hair, and how good Foggy’s fingers felt on his scalp - but he might just be remembering something he imagined, something he wanted to happen.

He wakes up feeling like shit warmed over. He makes a groan and turns over, and he hears Foggy stir in his bed, his sleep-sticky voice asking Matt how he’s doing.

“Ohhhhhh god, Foggy.”

Foggy chuckles a little. “Welcome to hangovers, buddy. I’m surprisingly okay - want me to go get us some coffee?”

The thought of the smell of coffee, especially the sugary latte drinks Foggy likes, makes Matt’s stomach turn over. He buries his face in his pillow and groans again.

“Hmm, okay. Well, you know what helps me out with hangovers…”

“Water?”

“I was going to say ganja, but good idea, let me get you some,” Foggy says, getting out of bed. Matt hears him pull on some sweatpants and pick up a mug.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“S’no problem. Hey – I just thought of something. I picked up some edibles the other day for a special occasion. And… it’s Sunday! I can do a wake-and-… Cake? Whatever. I can eat my weed, and it won’t bother your bloodhound nose.”

“Perfect,” Matt mumbles into the pillow, wanting to sound happier for his friend than he ends up sounding in his state of discomfort.

“I’ll go get you that water,” says Foggy, leaving their room to go to the drinking fountain down the hall. Matt listens to his footsteps and the water running, filling the cup. Foggy’s breathing, his heartbeat, his smell that he can still detect at that distance.

He thinks about what Foggy has said about marijuana and how it makes him feel. How it gives him a different perspective and relaxes him. And would it really help a hangover? That sure would be nice. The idea of edibles has never occurred to Matt before, but it opens up a possibility, and suddenly Matt wants to try this thing Foggy experiences all the time, get a window into Foggy’s world.

Foggy comes back and hands Matt the mug of water as he sits up in bed. He gulps it down and turns toward his friend. “Hey, do you think you can spare one of those edibles?”

He hears Foggy’s jaw fall open and his muscles tense, and he laughs. “How did you know I’m standing here in utter and total shock?” Foggy asks. “Wow, really? I thought you were totally anti-getting stoned.”

“I never said that,” Matt says. “I said maybe it wasn’t for me, but hey – if it really helps a hangover…”

“Now, I didn’t say ‘cure’,” Foggy cautions. “And no promises even for helping. Honestly, it might just be a hair-of-the-dog thing.”

“I just want to try it once,” Matt says. “It will – it will help me understand you better.” He smiles up at Foggy, and Foggy’s rapid heartbeat makes him flush. 

“Aww,” says Foggy, “that’s so sweet. You’re such a nerd. Of course you can have one of my edibles. Just be sure to take detailed notes, I will expect a report by next week, Murdock.” Matt snorts and reaches a foot off the bed to kick him in the leg.

Foggy opens the Drawer of Eternal Stench, as Matt has come to think of it, and takes out two plastic-wrapped packages. Matt can smell the sugar and butter of cookies, and an oily, weedy smell buried in the ingredients that is a lot milder and pleasanter than the burning plant. 

Foggy tosses him one without thinking, and makes a surprised noise when Matt grabs it out of the air. “Whoa, nice catch.”

“Lucky try,” Matt says, nervously, “The- the plastic is really easy to hear.”

“Anyway,” Foggy says, ripping into the packaging of his own cookie, “happy herbaceous breakfast. Cheers!”


	5. Chapter 5

They chew their treats; Matt takes a deep breath and waits. He must look like he expects something to happen, because Foggy explains that it takes an hour or so to get through the digestive system and start to kick in. He suggests they go have real breakfast in the meantime. They pull on some clothes and cover their unwashed hair in hats and make their way to the closest cafeteria. Whether through placebo effect or for real, Matt already feels a bit better, and manages to have some cereal and toast.

By the time Foggy is finishing up his bacon and pancakes, Matt is confused, distractible. He keeps getting sucked into conversations strangers are having in distant parts of the cafeteria, getting lost in their words, having trouble keeping the thread. 

Walking back to their dorm, Matt feels assaulted by stimuli. It’s sort of like when he was a kid, before he was taught how to focus and shut it out. Except this time, he finds his attention being drawn in to particular things that he gets immersed in and can’t ignore: patterns of footsteps across the intersecting web of campus footpaths; the smell of diesel exhaust and the bone-rumbling sounds of distant trucks; clicking noises of the claws of pigeons on sidewalks. There’s too much focus, instead of not enough, and he can’t control the focus.

The worst part is people. There are so many of them, passing by him and Foggy, talking and laughing, and Matt feels all of their eyes on him and wants to hide. He thinks about what they can sense about him that he can’t, how he doesn’t really know what he looks like to them. He may have supersenses, but they have sight. What do they see, what can they know? Can they see by his expression, his body language that he’s done something illegal? What else can they see on him, what of his secrets can they discern? The more Matt thinks about it, the more he feels his muscles tense up, to the point that they are twitching, and he knows he must look even more abnormal. By the time they are almost back home, Matt is sure they must be attracting attention. He feels himself sweating. 

“Dude, you’ve been quiet for a long time, are you okay?” comes Foggy’s voice, across a deep mental divide. It takes Matt an indeterminable number seconds to fully realize his friend said something and what it means. 

“Um. Yeah. I just –“ he lowers his voice. “I feel like everyone’s watching us, Foggy.”

Foggy makes a sort of laughing sigh and takes Matt by the shoulders, facing him.

“That’s just pot paranoia, my friend. I guess I should have told you about that. See, I never get it anymore, so I kind of forgot.”

“Pot paranoia?”

“It’s really typical when you’re not used to it. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Let’s get inside.” He takes Matt’s arm again and leads him to the door of their dorm.

Matt is afraid to talk about it until they’re safely inside, and he checks the door of their room to make sure it’s locked, even though he knows that is absurd. Finally, he turns to Foggy and whispers. “Is it supposed to – is it supposed to feel like your brain is attacking itself?”

Foggy laughs, _way way way_ too loud in Matt’s opinion, and Matt impulsively puts his hand over Foggy’s mouth to shush him. Foggy chuckles through his fingers, grabbing his wrist, and Matt flushes hot from new knowledge of the shape and texture of Foggy’s lips. He quickly drops his hand.

“Matt. Matt. Please come sit down.” He leads Matt to his bed. “You don’t have to whisper. Nobody can hear us talking at a normal volume in the privacy of our own room. And anyway, even if someone did, nobody’s going to call the cops, or – or laugh at you for being a weed amateur, or whatever it is you’re worried about.”

Matt tries to process what Foggy is saying, but his cognitive functions do seem tangled up on themselves. He loses the start of Foggy’s sentence by the time he puzzles out the end of it.

“My head, it just – I can’t even think right. Is this… Is this, like, some kind of special weed?” Matt feels himself sweating again. “Do you even know the person you bought this from, Foggy? What if—“

“Oh my god, Matty, you have to stop,” Foggy says, sitting down next to Matt and rubbing one hand over his back. “Yes, I know the person, he’s my usual guy, these are high-grade products, you’re not being poisoned. This is all normal. The way your thoughts get sort of fragmented and it’s hard to concentrate. The only reason it doesn’t do that to me so bad anymore is ‘cause I smoke it so often.” 

Foggy’s hand on Matt’s back quiets Matt down for a second. He catches his breath, and gets absorbed in the feeling of Foggy’s touch for a while. He loses his train of thought, then finds it again. “It will all go back to normal, right, Foggy? I mean. My brain can’t … Get stuck like this, right?”

Foggy laughs, then apologizes. “I’m sorry, Matty, I know you’re genuinely worried - you’re just so cute. Don’t worry. Your brain is going to be A-OK.” Foggy reaches his arms around Matt slowly and takes him into a firm hug. “Your adorable dorky brain. Heh. I bet it’s actually more adorable than other brains. Like, as brains go, you probably have the best-looking brain. If we could see it. I mean, if I could see it. Like if your skull was transparent, or-“

“Stop,” says Matt. “No more vivid imagery of squishy organs.”

“Right, righty-o, Matty. Right,” says Foggy. “Anyway. What I meant to say was: I have done this like ten thousand times. It wears off in five or six hours. Your brain is going to be just fine. This is your brain on drugs, and… Sorry, sorry. Anyway, yes, one has some wacky attention and short-term memory issues for a while, and then everything goes back to normal. No problemo.”

Matt takes a deep breath and finally starts to relax. He puts one arm around Foggy, too, and rests his head on Foggy’s shoulder. 

“There you go,” Foggy murmurs, and runs his fingers through Matt’s hair. The drunk memory from the previous night comes back full-force. Matt thinks it did really happen.

“Why do you like this?” Matt asks, wonderingly. 

Foggy pauses. “Marijuana?” he finally says, brightly. “Oh, dude. There is so much more going on than paranoia and difficulty thinking straight. Don’t you have the body high – you know, the twitchiness and everything?”

Matt thinks about when they were walking home and his muscles were so tense, but he realizes the twitches were not just about anxiety. They are still here, even while he is more relaxed. Now that he has noticed them, he can’t un-notice them; he gets utterly absorbed in the odd jumps and tics throughout his body, becoming even more aware than usual of different locations across his muscles, his skin. Foggy’s hand has stopped moving in his hair, but the points of contact on his scalp tingle insistently. Foggy’s other hand is near his waist, and Matt squirms in response to the slightest movement of Foggy’s fingers. 

Every sensation in his body is intense, overwhelming. It’s like sex.

As soon as he thinks about sex, the whole concept of sex has taken over his attention like a wildfire, and ideas flash through Matt’s mind that have to do with Foggy and the feelings of Foggy touching him. Alarmed, Matt carefully detaches Foggy’s hands from him and sits back a little. 

Foggy has been going on about the other effects of pot Foggy finds pleasurable; about how the mental effects, though disorienting, are kind of neat, are an alternate way to be conscious. Matt is way too distracted to follow what Foggy is talking about. The more he tries to shut out thoughts about Foggy’s body, the more vivid they seem to be in his mind. He wants to run his hands up and down Foggy’s stomach and chest so badly he is not sure he can restrain himself.

“…And eating is so. Much. Fun,” Foggy continues. “You get so hungry, and foods taste so good… Hey, I think I have some Starburst around here somewhere, you want some? Starburst are so fucking intense when you’re high.”

Matt shakes his head. “No thanks, I’m not hungry,” he says quietly.

Foggy is silent for a moment. “You still okay? You went kinda still and sweaty-looking again,” he says.

Matt feels like Foggy must be able to read it on his face. He can’t contain it. He has to tell his friend the truth, somehow. “Foggy, I, um. It felt – it felt really good when you were holding me just now.”

Foggy takes in a breath, and Matt hears his excitement in his heart. “See, buddy? There are some good things about being stoned.” 

“No, wait – I – there’s more to it than that. I suddenly got really, uh.”

“Horny?” Asks Foggy with a laugh.

Matt’s face has never felt hotter. “Yeah.”

“That’s also one-hundred percent normal, dude.”

“But Foggy. I also - I am having inappropriate thoughts.”

“Stop being so Catholic, Matt,” says Foggy. “There are no inappropriate th—“

“—About you,” Matt interrupts.

Foggy’s heart actually skips a beat. Then it is fast. Matt’s head is filled with the sounds of his own blood rushing in his ears, and Foggy’s blood rushing just next to him.

“God, Foggy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Foggy splutters a bit, trying to regain his cool. “It’s okay, I’m not offended! Really! You just – you’re just really, really high, and probably really confused, I don’t know – and these things happen. Look, it’s happened to me. One time I was stoned out of my gourd, and I think I may have had relations with the arm of a couch at my friend’s house.”

“Gross,” Matt laughs, but he thinks about Foggy actually doing that, and _gross_ does not entirely capture his feelings. “Yeah. I’m just really high.”

They are both quiet for a minute. Matt can hear Foggy twisting the cuff of his sweatshirt sleeve in his fingers. Matt shakes his head. He is not being fully honest. Foggy deserves him to be fully honest.

“Wait.”

Seconds tick by. Matt got lost in the sound of Foggy playing with his sweatshirt, and forgot he was in the middle of saying something important, until Foggy reminds him: “I’m waiting,” he says, patiently.

Matt takes a breath. “Right. No – I think – I think it isn’t just from being high, Foggy. I’ve been feeling things. For months now.” 

“Feeling things about me, Matty?” Foggy asks softly.

Matt nods, utterly humiliated, but at least he got it off his chest. He confessed. He is clean now.

Foggy is still for a long while. Matt waits. He waits for their friendship to be over. The friendship that has been sustaining him. That he didn’t do anything to deserve.

“I understand if you want to switch roommates,” Matt says, swallowing a lump in his throat.

“What! Switch roommates?” Foggy cries. “Murdock, you fool. I couldn’t survive college without your paranoid, horny, inappropriate-thoughts-thinking ass. Come the fuck here.”

Matt protests and struggles half-heartedly, but Foggy is insistent, and then Matt is in his arms again. His fingers are in Matt’s hair, and Foggy presses a kiss to his head. Matt’s mind automatically dwells on the feeling of that and files it away.

“So, we’re okay? You’re okay?” Matt can’t help asking, hopefully, smiling a little. He still feels embarrassed and exposed, but if Foggy doesn’t want to pack up and move out, he can live with that.

“Yes, we are okay. Except that I need to tell you a couple things, too, since we are telling the stoned truth and nothing but the truth tonight.”

“Okay,” Matt says, putting his face down in where Foggy’s neck connects to his shoulder, becoming fully absorbed in the warmth, sounds, and smells of Foggy. 

“Honestly, I don’t just smoke weed because it’s fun,” Foggy sighs. “Sometimes I am also kind of running from things, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” Matt mumbles. “Like why I meditate. Weed is your meditation, Foggy… Zen and the Art of Rolling a Joint…” He giggles.

Foggy smacks Matt’s face lightly a couple times. “You’re getting distracted, I’m trying to admit things to you,” he says, laughing but a little annoyed. “I’m being serious.”

“Okay, okay.” 

Foggy holds Matt away from him by the shoulders to look at him. “You’ve been feeling things for months, you say, Matt? Vague, unspecified things? Mild, ephemeral things you’ve been mostly ignoring? Well, while you’ve been doing that like a champ, I’ve been living practically on top of the most gorgeous, beguiling man on campus. The most interesting, compassionate, bad-ass-est… Stone-cold sexiest man I could ever imagine. I am so fucking head over heels into you, Murdock, that I don’t know what to do.”

Matt is quiet. He feels a pressure in his skull, as if his head is barely able to contain all those superlatives, all this information.

“I didn’t even know I liked dudes before I met you,” Foggy goes on. For some reason this all sounds so incongruous and strange to Matt, Matt being so special and important to Foggy, the reverent tone of Foggy’s voice, that it suddenly seems absurdly funny. He starts giggling again. “What? I’m being real here!” Foggy splutters. “I’ve been trying so hard to just be a good friend to you, and trying not to flunk out of school, which I’m probably doing, and my mom and dad are going to kill me. I am so screwed, Murdock, and it is all your fault.”

 _You_ are _going to be screwed, and it_ will _be my fault,_ Matt thinks, feeling delirious, and can’t stop laughing.

Foggy cracks up, too; he can’t help it. “Stop… Laughing, you asshole! I’m trying to confess my undying love for you,” he laughs, and, when that doesn’t work, starts scrabbling his fingers into Matt’s sides. Matt doubles over with laughter, trying to push Foggy away without using too much of his strength or skillset.

“Oh my god, these abs, these QL’s,” Foggy moans, climbing over Matt and continuing his assault. “You’re a god. A very ticklish god.”

“Stop,” Matt gasps, helplessly, not meaning it; the sensations are deliciously overpowering, and he wants Foggy to keep touching him forever. He grabs onto Foggy’s arms, and Foggy’s hands go still on his abdomen. They both caress each other slowly. “I’m going to get you back,” Matt pants with fake menace, still laughing a little. Foggy’s hand smooths up his chest. “…Later, when you least expect it…” Foggy makes a noise in his throat. He bows his head and they touch lips gently once, before mashing their mouths together. Matt’s entire universe is made up of their points of contact, his mind constructing the fiery mental shape of Foggy out of all the sensations. He gets lost in it. They could be kissing for hours, for all he knows. Foggy’s tongue electrifies his hungry nerve endings.

Matt finally breaks off to take a breath. “You’re really in love with me?” 

He hears Foggy shake his head in resignation. “I have written poems. _Poems,_ Murdock!”

Matt grins wide. “Oh, I wanna see those.” 

“You will never, I have burned them in shame.” Foggy shoves his tongue deep in Matt’s mouth to shut him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Foggy didn't mean QLs, he meant obliques. What can I say, Foggy's no good at anatomy... He's pre-law, not pre-med...


	6. Chapter 6

Foggy’s words are finally starting to sink in. Matt feels a surge in confidence so potent, he wonders if it’s just the drugs. His fingers and toes are buzzing with energy, the high-induced twitchiness feeling weirdly pleasant now.

After more deep kissing, Matt deftly flips Foggy over, pinning Foggy on his back, straddling his waist. “Whoa, you just moved me like I was … A very light sack of potatoes,” Foggy says, surprised. He takes in a breath to say something else, but Matt pulling his shirt off over his head makes whatever it was die in his throat. Smiling, Matt can’t resist winking at him. 

“Oh, you _tease!_ ” Foggy says, as if demurely scandalized, running his hands over Matt’s bare skin. Matt bends down to kiss him more. He can feel that Foggy is hard underneath him, a realization which flushes a new wave of arousal through his body. He pulls up on Foggy’s sweatshirt. Foggy raises his arms to comply, but seems hesitant. “I’m not really in, uh, as good of shape as you, Matt,” he says softly, and Matt senses extra heat rising into his face and neck. 

Matt throws the sweatshirt aside and caresses gently over Foggy’s exposed skin. He shakes his head. “That really doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “I’m really into your body.” He smiles at Foggy’s sharp intake of breath.

“Why? I mean, you are? Oh god,” Foggy moans, as Matt kisses down his chest to his stomach. Matt spends a lot of time there, touching, kissing softly. “That feels so good, but it’s so weird…”

“You are soft and warm and strong … The way your skin is smooth like that … and, you smell absolutely amazing,” Matt tells him, between kisses. Each word he speaks lights up sensory images in his mind, the pot making everything vivid. Even better are Foggy’s responses to his words. A hitch in his breath, something like a whimper from his throat – and a pleased but skeptical, “I _smell_ amazing? Really?”

Matt raises his head. “At least to me. Maybe I just like you. A whole lot.”

He licks up Foggy’s lower stomach towards his navel, and Foggy yelps. “Oh shit, this is where you get me back, isn’t it,” he giggles wildly, as Matt sticks his tongue in his navel.

Matt pauses to smile up at him. “No, like I said – when you least expect it.”

“You’re so sexily evil,” Foggy complains, panting. “It isn’t fair.”

“Can I put my mouth lower?” Matt asks. “Or is that too evil for you?”

“Depends, “ Foggy says. “How _much_ lower? I’m not really feeling the toe-sucking today.”

Matt makes a face at him and starts to undo his jeans. He hears the muscles in Foggy’s throat as he swallows, feels the heat coming off of Foggy in pulses.

Pants opened, Matt slides his hand inside and rubs it slowly down over Foggy’s hard-on through his boxers. The way Foggy’s breath catches sends a shudder through him. But Matt feels suddenly awkward. “I don’t – I don’t really know what to do with a guy.”

Foggy snorts a little. “Yes, you do. _You’re_ a guy.”

Foggy has a point. Matt shucks his jeans further down and carefully peels the waistband of his boxers away. Foggy’s cock springs up under his hand. It’s a little different in shape and size than his own, but Matt has a pretty good idea what would feel good. He rubs his palm over the length of it, picking up some slipperiness on the way, the smells of turned-on Foggy assaulting his brain. Then he curls his fingers around Foggy’s cock and strokes with a strong grip. Foggy’s heavy breathing and groans make the hairs on the back of Matt’s neck stand up. “See, I knew you could do it,” Foggy teases him, a little breathless.

Matt feels himself getting lost in the rhythm, in Foggy’s sounds and smells, but he drags his mind back into focus. He has to act on one of his inappropriate thoughts while he has the chance. He ducks his head down to his hand, presses the flat of his tongue hard against the base of Foggy’s cock, and licks up, firm and slow. “Ohhhhhh, shit, Matt,” Foggy pants in anticipation. “You’re not really gonna-“ Matt sucks the head of his cock into his mouth. Foggy groans loud. “Yep, yes, you did,” he chokes out. Matt tries moving his tongue against Foggy inside his mouth, listening to Foggy gasp. “Oh god,” he says, voice wavery, as Matt moves his mouth down, taking more and more of Foggy in until he feels it against the back of his throat. “Oh god, Matt. Oh god,” Foggy repeats, and it reverberates in Matt’s head, the sound of Foggy utterly losing control of himself from the sensations that Matt is producing in him. 

Matt is beginning to think his initial awkwardness was pretty silly. This is easy. All he has to do is move his mouth, his tongue, and listen and feel for Foggy’s moans, his physiology. Keep doing the motions that move Foggy’s heart rate and skin temperature the most, that change his breathing most powerfully, that make him the loudest. Reactions which, in turn, turn Matt on the most. Until the two of them are locked together in a gorgeous spiral of mutual response, of sticky deep sex feelings, a spiral that, in his intoxicated state, Matt can almost visualize in his head. Being high definitely makes sex … Different. Matt can appreciate that.

He is so lost in it that he doesn’t understand when Foggy is pushing at his head, murmuring something insistently to him. He resists without thinking, shoving his mouth harder over Foggy’s cock. He pulls out of Foggy the most beautiful cry yet, the sound sending a jolt into his own erection. Foggy thrusts hard into his mouth, and then Matt is choking on something thick and overpowering, and he finally realizes Foggy is coming. The taste and smell seem to fill his whole skull, and he wouldn’t be able to take it except how they signify the summit of pleasure he just caused Foggy, how unbelievably sexy that is. How he’s been dreaming about this.

He pulls off finally, licking his lips, and lays down next to Foggy, who is panting, trying to make words, failing.

“Matty. Oh my god. You. You’re so. Mm. Matty.” 

“That was so hot,” Matt says, “making you feel like that.” He runs his fingers through Foggy’s long hair.

“It was hotter for me, I assure you,” Foggy says. “I… fully intend to return the favor,” he continues, still out of breath, “as soon as I can move.”

“It’s alright, really,” Matt says, laughing nervously.

Matt can hear Foggy shifting to lean up on an elbow and look at him. “Do you mean, ‘it’s alright’ like ‘no thanks’? Or do you mean, ‘it’s alright’ as in, ‘I’m Matthew Murdock the Masochist, bringing my roommate who’s in love with me to an earth-shattering orgasm, then denying myself any release’?”

Matt bites his lip, smiling because Foggy gets into the heart of him so easily. “If I had to pick – more the latter, I guess.”

Foggy sighs and chuckles at him. “Well, maybe we can take a rain check on the masochism,” he says. “Because I – oh wow, you really blushed hard when I said that.”

Matt covers his face with an arm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Foggy makes an exaggerated growl sound that Matt finds both unbearably cute and an unbearable turn-on. “I’m wiggling my eyebrows, Kinky McKinkPants. And I’m filing that away for later, seriously. But right now, how about just my nice, boring, vanilla mouth on your dick?”

“I don’t know,” Matt says, hardly able to get the words out, because it just seems like too much. But his dick knows. It throbs angrily at not already being down Foggy’s throat.

Foggy’s hands slide around his waist, his hips. “C’mon, loosen up, Catholic boy. So typical – too shy for a blow job, but you secretly want me to tie you up and spank you, and stuff. Probably?” He grins at how Matt’s body tenses up, his mouth falls open. “…I hope? Anyway,” he starts kissing down Matt’s chest, “Please let me go down on you? I really, really want to.” His voice is breathy, his want plain and strong even if Matt couldn’t smell and feel and hear it on him better than anyone else could. 

The pot still causing that super-focus in him, Matt gets fully absorbed in the feeling of Foggy’s kisses over his torso, and forgets to answer for a while. Then Foggy’s mouth is on his lower abdomen, his thighs through his jeans. His cheek brushing Matt’s cock makes Matt unable to ignore that he has never wanted someone this bad.

“Yeah,” Matt breathes. 

“Yeah? You’ll let me suck your glorious cock?” asks Foggy, eager, unzipping Matt’s pants. “I’m wiggling my eyebrows some more.”

“Maybe now, Foggy, before I change my mind,” Matt all but growls. And thinks he will have to use that voice more often, given what he feels and smells happen to Foggy because of it; given Foggy’s not-quite-sarcastic “Yes, _sir._ ”

Foggy frees him from his clothes, and then Matt is at the mercy of Foggy’s soft wet mouth, his rough, strong tongue. Matt has been blown before, and it is always almost too much for him to take, with Matt’s enhanced somatosensory system. Typically, it’s over too fast. This time, the sensations seem magnified even beyond that. All the skin over Matt’s entire body feels involved in what is happening on his cock. His head is tilted back, noises like sobs coming from his throat. Is it the pot, or some special qualities of Foggy’s mouth, or both? Or just the idea that it is Foggy doing it?

And maybe it’s just the marijuana dilating time out, but somehow Matt is not coming within seconds; the feelings are just building on themselves impossibly for some unknowable length of time. Matt can’t help it, he thrusts up into Foggy’s mouth, and Foggy grunts in surprise but takes it. He does it again, and is rewarded with Foggy’s hands roughly holding down his hips. That proves more than Matt can handle, and orgasm grips across and through every part of him. Foggy speeds up in response. Matt’s orgasm holds, peaks, goes past that, rocketing him into some realm beyond pleasure and pain, a world of pure white, un-valenced sensation. As if from a distance through muffling fabric, he is aware of the convulsions of his hips, the sounds he’s making, the spurts of come Foggy is taking willingly. His whole body jerks in aftershocks several times and finally relaxes. A rushing in his ears drowns out the usual cacophony, and the sounds of Foggy spitting into a Kleenex.

Any verbal production is beyond Matt for the moment, but Foggy conveniently sums up anything he would say if he could. “Dude,” Foggy intones, flopping heavily on the bed. “ _Whoa._ ”


	7. Coda

They’re laying naked, wrapped around each other in the mess of Foggy’s bed, stroking each other’s backs and hair slowly, half awake.

“Okay. Now I see how pot can be fun,” Matt says quietly into Foggy’s ear.

Foggy chuckles. “Yeah. I do think I smoke too much, though.”

“Really?”

“I may have to have to quit, eventually, or at least cut down. I heard some of the firms drug-test. And it’s too risky to get caught once I’m a lawyer – I could get disbarred.” He sighs. “That’s why it worried me when I tried to cut back this semester, for the sake of your sensitive nose, and I couldn’t.”

“I can help you stop,” Matt says without thinking.

“What, you run a rehab clinic in your spare time?” Foggy asks, skeptically.

“I know some techniques – I can show you how to meditate, it teaches you control over your thoughts and sensations.”

Foggy laughs, but then goes quiet. “Maybe that could help, sure. I’m not usually good at that kind of thing.”

Matt smiles. “Nobody is, at first,” he says. “We’ve got time.” Foggy makes a content noise and holds him closer, and they both drift off into sleep.


End file.
